


You Dance Over Me

by WormwoodandAsphodel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ghost!Jim, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, post tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:15:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WormwoodandAsphodel/pseuds/WormwoodandAsphodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two lonely hearts. One lonely dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Dance Over Me

The cool air met his tired skin in a welcomed embrace. Sherlock closed his eyes, tipping his face up to meet the gentle breeze that pirouetted through his hair and whispered comfort in his ears. It made him feel less alone, and he was content to stay just like that forever, soaking up the windy kiss.

Stillness. And silence once more. The picturesque moment subsided and Sherlock opened his damp eyes with a surprisingly heavy, surprisingly human heart.

At what delusive point had it come to this? Sherlock had known better. And he had no one to blame but himself. If only he hadn't been so careless, hadn't let that one precious part of himself slip away. It was like watching millions of grains of elusive sand slide through parted finger tips, blown away by the pitiless wind or gone forever on the infinite shore. Easy to lose, easy to prevent if he had only held on tighter...

Now he was alone, warding off mocking regrets and failing in that too. Even the wind had left him behind, estranged and abandoned.

It was the all-powerful fragility that came bundled together with a daunting mind. The aching loneliness that Sherlock would never admit he felt. The want, the need to feel accepted, and loved. Something he had never had, not with any amount of fullness.

There was a time when he had dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, he could have that vital love, and maybe it would be alright. But it never was, and the miserable reality had shattered something inside Sherlock that he hadn't known was breakable, and he knew he could spend an eternity cutting himself on the pieces.

And now, in his loneliness, he could feel the pain welling up in the clenching of his fists and in his shadowed countenance, that persistent, stubborn hurt spilling over in tears he was too proud to shed, in the tightening of his throat as he fought them back, in the shameful wobble of his lips as he tried to hold himself together. It wasn't enough. He didn't know if he would ever be alright, and what he wanted, most of all, was someone to share in that heartache.

He wondered briefly if Moriarty had ever felt this way. The bitter sting of solitude, both self created and predestined. Surely he had. He was so similar to Sherlock, so desperate for attention that Sherlock couldn't believe he hadn't felt that inevitable pain. Even though he had never shown it, Sherlock knew that his facade was too flawless to be anything but just that: a mask.

And as he chased these thoughts inside his head, he realized with a numbed since of what should have been alarm, but now more closely resembled resigned acceptance, that he missed the criminal, that there was a longing deep within him for the man that was the flipped side of his own life's coin.

But Moriarty was dead, and Sherlock was only hurting himself more.

He stood for a long while, letting the hurt engulf him in a damnable storm of self loathing and pity.

The wind buffeted Jim like a rough kick in the jaw, icy and malicious. It shouldn't have felt cold, but without warm blood flooding his veins, everything seemed so much more bleak and cutting.

He felt hollow, and emptier than he had in life. It was an absolute dullness that both filled him and stripped him of everything it meant to be human, however feeble that was.

And the loneliness he felt crushed his spirit. In life he had felt it, burying it deep beneath layers of skin and bone and words that meant nothing. A grand play, sound and fury, but ultimately false. He couldn't break the chains of mankind that that kept him bound, doomed to feel the same agony as any lesser minded person of the same species. Pathetic, yet unavoidable.

Now, however, cursed to wander forever in solitude, it was unbearable. The weight of the world bore down on his shoulders, which suddenly seemed so small and so frail. A heavy burden indeed, and one he could never escape.

And so it was that when he saw the detective, his detective, a fresh torrent of white hot pain washed over him, and he wished he could drown in it. He wanted to cry, but could not. Tears were for the living.

The sadness written on Sherlock's face was heart wrenching, for Jim could not deny that he cared, unimaginable so. It was a rare empathy, reserved only for Sherlock, for someone who understood so effortlessly. For the pain that touched them both, the continuous stream of a silent ache.

Jim walked to him, feet touching the ground without making contact. His face contorted with compassion, a weakness he would forfeit just on this occasion. Sherlock was blinking back tears, and Jim felt his pain his own heart's reflection.

He grabbed Sherlock's face tenderly. Sherlock didn't react. He just stared, unseeing. He took Sherlock's hand in his own, but his fingers slipped right through. Touch was also for the living.

Jim didn't speak. He couldn't. There was no need for it. Sherlock would never hear it, anyway.

Not knowing what to do, Jim threw himself at Sherlock, wrapping his arms senselessly around his neck and clinging to him like a lost child, knowing that Sherlock had no idea he was there. He tried to take comfort from the one sided hug, but it was hard when there was nothing physically felt.

Once again, he tried to take Sherlock's hand. Almost immediately, the detective's hand lifted, and something kindled inside Jim, smothered instantly as he realized Sherlock had moved of his own volition.

To Jim's amazement, Sherlock began to dance, alone and broken. Jim wanted so badly to join him, a longing within him that was fierce and bright.

Sherlock lead, and Jim did his best to follow, leaning his head to Sherlock's chest and pretending he could hear his heart beating against his cheek. A single tear ran down Sherlock's face, and Jim, forgetting, reached up to brush it away.

Sudden and violent frustration filled Jim, and he pounded, unseen and unfelt, on Sherlock's chest, mouth parted in a silent scream. He turned away, unable to bear another second, and ran.

He stopped and looked back. He wasn't sure what made him do it. His eyes met Sherlock's intent gaze briefly, and his face lit up as hope swelled in his chest. His misery returned, however, when Sherlock looked away, and he realized Sherlock had not seen him at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was for #SheriartyHalloween2014 on tumblr. Don't forget to comment!


End file.
